Give My Regards to Mrs Watson
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: A series of shorts, centering around the good Doctor's wife. Warning, this one has a spot of romance, becuase I, like Watson, enjoy a bit of romantic drivel now and again.
1. Chapter 1

For perhaps the twentieth time, I smoothed the front of my dress, just as I had done, across the street staring up at the brass plaque that read 221b.

Despite the resolution I had started out with that morning, it had taken me a great deal of time to get to the point where I was now. For once I had found Baker street I had had to work up the nerve to cross to the correct side, and once I had come to the door it had taken a while until I could finally bring myself to ring the bell.

He was a good man, I had heard good report of him from my own employers, and I so did need the help.

But that did not make me feel any less awkward.

It would be easy just to slip away, to forget the whole matter…but, thinking of my father, I knew that this may be the only way to discover what had happened to him, and there was no one else in London to whom I could turn. Not in these unusual circumstances.

So at last I rang the bell and almost at once it was opened by a small woman with a sensible dress, and graying hair tied up in neat bun. She looked me over with shrewd practiced eyes, though her smile was not unkind.

I put my shoulders back and straightened myself, brushing at my dress absently once again, for the gaze of the woman made one feel unnaturally grubby.

"How can I help you dear?" She asked, her voice accented with Scot.

"My name is Mary Morstan." I said evenly, hoping that I appeared to be confident. "I am here to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes."


	2. First Impressions

I entered the room, catching at once the scents of burning coal and gentleman's pipe tobacco that not only hung in the air but also clung to the furniture and the carpets from overuse in a small atmosphere. A bachelor's quarter's indeed.

It was a comforting smell for it brought to mind memories of my own girlhood and my father, who had also indulged in this habit from my earliest recollections of him.

The brief moment of nostalgia recalled my mind back to the purpose of my visit and after a quick glance about the room (which was littered with papers, books, clothing and everything else that an untidy and free man is wont to leave about) I found myself before two very different men.

One, the taller of the two, was leaning casually against the mantelpiece, his very air exuding self-confidence, as though even here in his own abode he could not set aside that sense of masterful command with which he surveyed every object and person to cross his path.

Far from relaxed he brought to mind the taut strings of an instrument, filled with an energy that lay just beneath the surface, ready to be drawn upon at any moment it was called for. His form was thin and tall, but not awkwardly so, for he carried himself with a grace and air that was well matched to his rather assured countenance. And his eyes…his eyes were easily his most unique feature. They were of an unusual pale gray and carried with them a gaze that was as sharp and keen as the scalpel of a physician, and just as delicate. They seemed to nimbly dissect everything they lingered upon, though I had seen in them a softer, somewhat warmer glow when they had rested upon his companion.

And his companion…

…it is difficult, even now to describe the emotions that filled me when I cast my gaze upon the second gentleman. I can only attempt to do so.

In appearance he was not an extraordinary man, he was of a sturdy build, with a neat military moustache and a healthy color and manner that told of his active lifestyle and regular habits.

While his friend gave off an outward display of vitality, his own demeanor was one of calm and subtle strength, and where the other gave off a sense of assurance, _his_ presence made one feel a sudden and comforting reassurance; so much so that as his very deep and kindly eyes came to rest upon me I was able to cease the trembling of my hands and felt at once more comfortable in the strange room.

He did not dissect with his gaze…rather it swept softly over me, taking in every feature of my face and the articles of my dress, observing not so much with calculation as with consideration.

The hazel depths seemed to light as he took me in, giving one a glimpse of an inner spark and spirit that he seemed wont to mute when his friend was acting in front of others.

I had never see him before, but in that instant I thought I understand his character very well and as our gazes met it was almost as though there was an exchange…or a relation between the two of us…a familiarity that was altogether inexplicable.

And though I was inclined to feel nervous for a moment, the sensation was swept away in an instant as his face warmed in a slow, genuine smile that sent a strange but welcome warmth and lightness to my heart.

This I observed all in the course of a few seconds though it seemed a great deal longer, and a moment later it was ended entirely as the taller of the two strode up to me and motioned me cordially if somewhat brusquely into a chair.

I sat, looking at the man I now knew to be Sherlock Holmes, though I was aware of the other gentleman's gaze still upon me.

"I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," I said,"because you once enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic complication."


	3. Brave Heart

**This will continue the basic format of the Sign of Four. My own invention will be inserted when I've exhausted that. Expect an attempt at daily updates. **

**Also expect an update of Last Shaft this evening. **

* * *

Almost at once I found myself grilled in a most precise manner by the detective, and for a moment I felt like the girl I had been a number of years ago, first applying to the agency which referenced me as a governess. Experience was the only thing that kept me from fidgeting, for I wanted nothing better than to flee the room.

My legs have always been braver than me and stubbornly remained rooted to the spot as he decided whether my plight was worth his consideration.

The presence of his nameless friend with the friendly eyes continued to be a source inexplicable comfort…

Until he put aside his cigarette and made to leave his chair.

"You will, I am sure, excuse me." he said softly, almost a murmur, as though the words were a polite convention not meant to be overheard.

Suddenly the sharp grey eyes seemed twice as cold and sharp, and the courage that had straightened my spine and supported my chin threatened to drain from my person.

The gentleman did not make a single step before I threw out my hand, as though I could physically detain him…or cling to him as the only sign of land in this strange sea of intrigue and deception in which I was awash.

"If your friend, would be good enough to stop, he might be of inestimable service to me." I said, wishing to heaven I knew his name.

He looked at me in surprise, a picture of startled society in his neat suit and trimmed moustache.

Without a word he sank into the chair with a squeak of leather and wood, so quickly he might never have left it.

In a wash of relief I turned back to Mr. Holmes. "Briefly, the facts are these…"


	4. How Very Camelot

**I'm trying to move this quickly through the Sign of Four. If it confusing for you I refer you to chapter two of that most excellent novel. **

**This chapter is dedicated to David Burke's Watson. More than any other he seemed to be a friend of the ladies. He is the one who, in Copper Beeches, gasped and exclaimed "100 a year!" with all the enthusiasm of your bff going "No way!"**

* * *

"…They have been pronounced by an expert to be of a rare variety and of considerable value. You can see for yourself that they are very handsome."

I reached into my bag for the flat box, the heavy objects inside rolled and clinked softly. I held it out flat and open the lid as both men leant in to look.

Mr. Holmes' eyes, with a secretive luster rather like the pearls themselves, swept the contents of the box without surprise. The Doctor let out a low whistle, he looked at me with raised eyebrows and quirked a smile.

It was a small gesture, not affectionate, not really. But it was an offer to share in my bemusement, and joy at my good fortune. It was infectious and I returned the smile, but had to look quickly away again for his warm eyes were fastened on my face and I had to concentrate on the matter at hand, on what Mr. Holmes was saying.

I gave him the note, which he examined before us, his enraptured audience. Then he pinned me with his sharp eyes.

"Well, really, this is a very pretty little mystery!" said Mr. Holmes, with such pleasure in his voice one could not help but share in it. There was a tangible thrill in the air, an excitement that seemed to originate from the tall, spare gentleman, and spread out to fill the room and set your blood to pumping.

"What do you intend to do, Miss Morstan?"

He knew very well, what I intended to ask him, the curling smile on his lips told me so. But he made me ask and I was relieved when he agreed to accompany me. Mr. Holmes was competent and watchful, I felt my affair to be quite safe in his hands.

But a new thrill filled me, when he added: "Why Dr. Watson is the very man. Your correspondent says two friends. He and I have worked together before."

Indeed, I could see that the two operated as a whole. Mr. Holmes was balanced by his steady, quiet friend. I would no sooner sail a ship without an anchor than see the one without the other.

I turned to him, unguardedly this time, for even more than Mr. Holmes, he made _me_ feel safe. The detective would be focused on his business, it was the Doctor he would trust with his investments.

"I shall be proud and happy," he said, "if I can be of any service."

I felt an easing in my chest at these words. I had been friendless when the evening began. Now I had two.

Two intelligent, competent, gentlemen, who would brave the unknown for a stranger off the street.

They might almost have stepped out of the fairytales I had read as a small girl. Gallahad himself seemed to be at my side.

"Au revoir then."

I was dismissed, Mr. Holmes turned away. Dr. Watson's gaze lingered. I smiled at both of them. "Au revoir."

* * *

**Finally, they're on their way, off to meet the shadowy man who sent Ms. Morstan the pearls and discover the fate of her poor father.**

**Every time I read these I become less and less surprised that Doyle actually believed in faries. **


	5. Conspirators

**At this point they are already on their way to meet Mr. Sholto. **

**This bit was inspired by a line of Watson's that goes: **

**"He leaned back in the cab, and I could see by his drawn brow and his vacant eye that he was thinking intently. Miss Morstan and I chatted in an undertone about our present expedition and its possible outcome, but our companion maintained his impenetrable reserve until the end of our journey."**

**

* * *

**

I met my gentleman in the cab, and as it began to make its way to the lyceum theater, we spoke on the question of the case and the pearls for some moments.

At last I broke in on Mr. Holmes pert questioning and distracted him with the paper from father's pocketbook. He seized it, laid it out on his nobly knees and pulled out a little lens that quivered with the tension of his dexterous hands.

His friend smiled at this, watching in fond companionship, sharing in his excitement as he exclaimed over the parchment and at last handed it back to me.

"Preserve it carefully, then, Miss Morstan, for it may prove to be of use to us. I begin to suspect that this matter may turn out to be much deeper and more subtle than I at first supposed. I must reconsider my ideas."

And with that he settled back against his seat, turned his head to the window and frowned at his own reflection.

I blinked and turned to meet the kindly blue eyes of my other companion.

"Quite a change in energy, is it not?" he murmured, obviously unafraid of being overhead.

"How deep is this trance of his?" I asked, for Mr. Holmes did not seem aware that he was the topic of conversation.

"The master will keep until we irritate him," Dr. Watson murmured in mock seriousness, then put a finger to his lips over a conspiratorial grin. "But we may talk quietly I think."

I breathed in relief, for as safe as I felt with these two men, I was not ready to spend a long time in silence with them.

The Doctor saw my relief, but made no fun at me, asking instead, "Tell me more about your father?"

So for a little while we shared stories of India, and of absent fathers, while the detective stared vacantly, and scribbled in his notebook.

On no occasion did an awkward silence threaten to interrupt at all.


	6. Camaraderie

**At this point Watson is wracking his brains because, while he has strong feelings for Mary Morstan, she is set to inherit a huge treasure, and he is afraid she'll see him as a fortune seeker. So he doesn't say anything, confusing her no end. **

**All Holmes cares about is climbing barefoot over rooftops.**

I could not imagine what had changed, or what I had done. All the way to Mr. Sholto's house the good Doctor and I had been…familiar. We spoke easily together, not just of India, the case, or even Mr. Holmes. We spoke on subjects far away from our current activities, and I found myself growing closer to him. It is a thrilling thing when someone you have just met seems to be able to look into your head and share your thoughts, when your own smile at a joke is mirrored exactly on another's face. For an analogy I can only think of that trite idiom of dancing, and finding a partner perfectly matched to your own steps.

I found it easy to be friendly and professional with Mr. Holmes. But with Dr. Watson I had become so comfortable that when we entered the grounds of the great decaying house, and the desolation of the place shivered through me I didn't pause to put my hand into his.

And when his hand closed gently around mine I didn't think he was offended.

But then Mr. Holmes left to crawl about on the roof of that decrepit building like a monkey, and Watson came to deliver me home alone.

It should have been even easier to talk than it was before, with Mr. Holmes gone.

Instead he was cold and withdrawn, ramrod straight as the soldier he must have been.

Frankly, here in the private pages of my journal, I felt the loss of that camaraderie worse than when Sholto told me of my father's death.


End file.
